


A Thousand Lives in Which to Love You

by Azrael



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Masturbation, Pining, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-23 21:55:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4893772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azrael/pseuds/Azrael
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A love story across time.  Sherlock and John are meant to be together.  Always.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Thousand Lives in Which to Love You

**Author's Note:**

> I had a lovely Anonymous promp show up in my tumblr ask box that sparked this story.
> 
>  
> 
> _John feels like an idiot. It's been a month since he moved back into 221B after... Well... After everything. He never realized how much he'd willfully chosen to ignore things Sherlock-related because he'd been so afraid he'd end up inflaming the feelings he'd tried to keep buried. He'd been so busy at his task, he hadn't noticed how much Sherlock had changed._
> 
>  
> 
> _His black moods are quieter & internalized, he has nightmares & John is pretty sure Sherlock flinches every time John so much as reaches for him. He's also pretty sure Sherlock has some psychosomatic issues with his shoulders & his back. He's seen Sherlock struggle to get in & out of his Belstaff as if his muscles are in lock down & he always ends up having to take deep, gasping breaths after. John doesn't know how to go about asking him what's been going on. Not after he made it clear to Sherlock that he didn't care for the "why"._
> 
>  
> 
> _He doesn't know how to fix this tense atmosphere that seems to have crept into their friendship. Most of all, he doesn't know how to tell Sherlock that he's sorry. He doesn't know how to confess his love to Sherlock. Doesn't know how he'd go about proving it so Sherlock would believe it, because John is aware that he would have to earn it back - the trust Shelock's lost in him. But you know what they say, once a soldier, always a soldier. And John's been in it with Sherlock for life - this one, or the next, or the next, or the next... Into battle then, Watson. Steady on._
> 
>  
> 
> A lovely promp, no? I think so too! So, dear Nonnie, if you'd like to come out of the shadows, I'd love to gift this fic to you. Your choice of course!

_She is beautiful. Her skin is smooth and soft as a pearl, her hair a waterfall of calligraphy ink twisted and twined into elaborate formations and decorated with mother of pearl cherry blossoms and jade. Her lips are plump and curved under their red paint and her eyes, oh her eyes. Her eyes stare into him and pry out the secrets of his soul. They are lit from within with her intelligence, sunlight striking through swirls of black tea. She is greater than all she comes in contact with, despite the foolishness of others in how they see her. She is moonlight and lightning, deep forest pools and lofty mountain peaks, the warmth of a hearth fire and the biting cold of a winter night._

_Her body lifts and sways beneath his own, the length of her legs and the slimness of her waist undulating beneath his touch. The dip of her spine is poetry, the nape of her neck transcendent. He loves her, loves her, loves her and will for all eternity. He would dishonor himself at the quirk of her lips, fall on his sword at her whisper in his ear, die a thousand deaths for the scent of her on his skin._

_But beyond her great beauty (for truthfully the world has no shortage of beautiful women) he loves her mind and her spirit, her sharp eyes and her biting wit. She is glorious to him and he will follow her perfumed train of vibrant silk and adventure to the end of time, for he is ronin, and may choose his own path. What better cause to serve than the geisha untamed?_

/////////////

John breathed deep the aroma of sun warmed dust, sweetened tea, and chemicals of dubious provenance. It was good to be home, like slipping into a favorite, old jumper that had been stretched to perfection and worn into optimal temperature. Marriage hadn’t agreed with him, or perhaps it was simply a matter of semantics. He knew, despite his penchant for dangerous situations and people, that he was a creature of comfort and habit. Domesticity was his default setting, his favored habitat. Even his Afghanistan days had seen him using precious computer privileges for the purpose of ordering little luxuries online as opposed to Skyping with family and acquaintances he never enjoyed talking to.

Yes, marriage to the right person probably would suit him down to his toes, but Mary had decidedly not been the individual with whom to test that theory. Even ignoring the whole debacle of her past rogue assassin lifestyle, he and Mary had never quite fit perfectly. They’d clashed on most points at one time or another, be it baby names or the precise location of the sofa in their living space. They’d had awful rows over what to order for dinner even. After Madeline was born, they’d simply devolved into flatmates and really it had been a relief to come home on their daughter’s six month birthday to find a thick sheaf of divorce paperwork waiting for him with an uncapped pen resting on top. He’d flicked quickly through to the custodial agreement, heaved a sigh of relief over the equal distribution of time and responsibilities, and signed or initialed at every helpfully placed sticky tab. He’d just finished the last one when Mary had walked in holding a freshly bathed and sleepy Madeline and the two parents had smiled genuinely at each other for the first time in what felt like eons.

Within two hours, John had phoned Sherlock to notify him of the change and to request if he could come back to Baker Street. His friend had been stunned, but welcomed him warmly and then insisted on being allowed to read the custody agreement of his Goddaughter in full. By the time John and Mary had ironed out the details (only shouting a little) and distributed their assets and belongings and sold the house, Sherlock had leased and remodeled 221C for his laboratory and convinced Mrs. Hudson to finish B’s attic space and install another bathroom to give John and Madeline a space of their own away from the common areas. He’d even wired an intercom system throughout the whole of 221, allowing all the inhabitants to communicate with each other as necessary and installing a much more reliable baby monitor into the very walls of the building than the plastic things sold in discount stores. There was no longer a nightmare of glass tubing and questionable biological samples on the kitchen table. The refrigerator, floors, hell the whole bloody flat, were spotless. John had no idea what Sherlock could have done with the harpoon, but he was very relieved to see it gone from its customary corner.

John was back at Baker Street and every other week his little girl was too, ensconced in the freshly pink-painted room that had once been her father’s while her Daddy slept in the new attic room above and her Uncle guarded her from one floor below. At just about nine months old, Madeline was starting to crawl short distances and was working on pulling herself up by the coffee table and anyone’s trouser legs or skirts that happened to be within reach. She laughed and screamed and cried and babbled and the air of the flat often echoed with the sound of camera phones clicking.

On baby-free weeks, Sherlock and John took new cases if there wasn’t anything active on. John had cheerfully abandoned the drudgery of the clinic to become full time business partner in Sherlock’s Work. The business cards now read: Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John H. Watson, M.D. – Consulting Detectives. The blog was back and more popular than ever, and both John and Sherlock spent the time between cases and Madeline working on their respective books. John’s was of course a memoir of the first year of their partnership while Sherlock was writing a treatise on forensic science that was already backordered in the hundreds by a dozen world renowned universities.

John took another deep breath of home-scented air and let a small smile of satisfaction curl his lips. In a little while he’d call down to Sherlock through the intercom and pester him into making a decision on dinner. John would build a fire while Sherlock ordered in Mandarin or Spanish or Moroccan, and they’d settle in with glasses of wine and fragrant food to converse about their days; past, present, and future. They’d pad off to their separate rooms once the flames banked and John would settle to sleep in his warm bed with a full stomach and the knowledge that tomorrow was the beginning of a Madeline week. Life was finally as it should be.

/////////////

_The cold is coming. There is not enough meat. He must bring meat for the tribe, must serve the clan before the snow and sickness comes. There are prey animals to the south in the plains. Yes, that is where he will go to get meat. But first…_

_He gathers his heaviest fur and bundles dried meat, fruit, and hard bread along with a small water pouch and his butchering knives into a pack that he straps to his strong back. He takes up his spear and fixes his sling shot to the leather thong tying his body coverings closed before turning toward the tree line and the hint of a path twisting up, up, up to the star man’s cave. The star man is so named because he reads the very air and sky and knows the truths of things ordinary men should not know. He knows he should fear the star man as others do, but he is fascinated instead. He has become first hunter because of his skill with spear and sling. He has become clan leader because he speaks to the star man without fear or judgment._

_He reaches the mouth of the star man’s cave and trills a greeting. His friend comes forth from the darkness with a straight back, a piercing gaze, and the barest hint of welcome around his mouth. He knows to take this as the pleased greeting it is and reaches forward without hesitation to clasp arms. The star man welcomes him to the hearth where he unrolls his bundle and shares his food with his host. They communicate in familiar clicks, grunts, and gestures._

_The star man tells him of the harsh snows to come this cycle and he uses the new information to grimly calculate the amount of meat he will need to hunt and cure. The clanswomen will have to defend the camp while he leads the clansmen to the hunt. He asks the star man to join the hunt. The star man declines as he knew he would. He asks the star man to watch over the tribe lands. The star man acquiesces for a price. He is pleased. The hunt will be successful, the tribe lands will be safe, and he will help his friend through the cold season by bartering supplies for doubtfully needed protection._

_The star man looks up and sniffs the air, then turns his head to the west. He looks west as well and then watches his friend as he communicates the knowledge he has just gleaned from the wind. They are happy._

/////////////

As warm and familiar as 221B was, its denizens were changed men.

John was harder in many ways. He was not as likely to follow blindly where angels feared to tread, but once he sallied forth there was far less mercy to be had at his hands. He wouldn’t just throw a punch, he’d give a concussion. He wouldn’t just immobilize, he’d break a limb. He wouldn’t give a warning shot, he’d aim for center mass. The lessons begun in a hostile warzone were finished on a civilian battleground and John was always an excellent student.

But that wasn’t such a drastic change really. John had always had a temper and a leaning towards practicality over sentiment. He liked his creature comforts, but could go without quite easily as well and was not above depriving himself to make a point even before Sherlock’s Great Fall. So he was still himself, just a little more so. John undiluted as it were. Sherlock was a different story entirely. Whereas before, Sherlock was a hurricane or a volcano, now he was the tide. No less a force of nature with strength and immense power, but there was far less bluster and spectacle. Somewhere in his travels, Sherlock had discovered stillness. John used to have to worry about bullet holes and explosions or violent, screeching violin cacophony at two in the morning whenever Sherlock had a dark mood. Now, Sherlock just went…away. He became remote, distant, unreachable.

It was terrifying.

It hadn’t yet happened on a Madeline week. The dark patches were, in fact, very few and far between, but John dreaded them as he did very little else. It was awful to watch Sherlock withdraw and internalize because John remembered well the spill of words detailing the agony and frustration of a great mind shredding from within. There had been destruction of property and weeping and wailing and now there was silence. It wasn’t the petulance of the old sulks either. This was deeper, darker and it filled John with a towering feeling of impotence that he couldn’t help, couldn’t heal his friend’s tortured pain. John wasn’t stupid, he knew Sherlock must have done and seen horrible things when meting out justice to Moriarty’s organization, but he was beginning to regret not insisting on hearing about what those things were.

Since his return, Sherlock was a bit less abrasive. He was more inclined to react than to instigate and he made concerted efforts to relate to the important people in his life on a more personal level. He still couldn’t remember Lestrade’s first name with any regularity, but he always asked after his children and would even very occasionally accept an invite to the pub after a successful case. He was far less cruel and dismissive of Molly, though clearly uncomfortable and reserved when not speaking about dead bodies as if worried she’d launch herself bodily at him and start ripping off his clothes. He no longer wiggled out of doing household fixes for Mrs. Hudson or ignored his parents’ phone calls. He straightened up his messes in the common areas of the flat, did the odd small shopping (although both he and John preferred John to do it), and even refrained from spoiling the endings of programs on the telly, movies, and books that John was trying to enjoy.

But sometimes, in the middle of the night, when John couldn’t sleep for one reason or another, he would meander down the two flights of stairs to make himself a cup of tea and he would hear sounds coming from behind Sherlock’s door. They were not happy sounds at all, more like moans, pleading, and sobs. They made John want to rush in, burrow under the covers, and gather Sherlock to his body and comfort him through it all. He wanted to murmur reassurances and promises of safety, let his friend cling and cry into his neck.

He wanted to stroke dark curls soothingly and kiss away tears from wet lips and damp cheekbones. He wanted to wind his legs with far longer ones and press himself as close as possible. He wanted to soothe and distract with caresses to smooth skin and chase away dark dreams and memories with bright tangible pleasures.

It didn’t matter what he wanted.

Sherlock had never invited touch, but now he positively shied away from it. He could accept the rare hug if he saw it coming and was prepared for it, but there were no accidental brushes of fingers or limbs when moving around each other, not anymore. Once, back when he’d first returned to 221B, John had brought Sherlock a cup of tea and clapped a hand on the detective’s shoulder as he leaned over to place the mug on the table. Sherlock had stiffened, shuddered, and jerked out of his grasp. John had jumped back quickly with wide eyes and raised hands while Sherlock had quivered in his seat for a moment and then brusquely stood up and disappeared into his room for several hours.

John had been very careful not to touch uninvited again. 

/////////////

_She followed Master through the marketplace, three steps behind and making no eye contact with her betters as befit her station. The denizens of Rome were well used to the sight of Master striding purposefully through the city in his white and crimson toga. They were therefore also well used to her smaller figure in her plain, but clean, brown slave dress, her bright, foreigner’s hair pinned up in a simple braided style and her small, rough hands clutching Master’s ever present leather satchel. There were those that leered speculatively, but she paid no mind. Master liked her close to hand and only his to command. He would not pass her like a worthless trinket for favors easily gotten through more pedestrian means._

_Master was brilliant, and an asset to Caesar as a philosopher and tactician. Master was young still; but quickly rising in the ranks of the Senate. Master was only cruel when he had no other choice and often kinder than he had to be, but only when out of sight of his rivals. He was her Master, and she was proud to stand in his shadow and do his bidding._

_She loved most the times he summoned her to his bed and took her apart with hands, mouth, cock, and exquisite skill. Last night had been such a time, and she ached pleasantly between her legs as she hurried to keep pace with his longer strides. She knew, also, that she was late in her monthly courses and fatigued with it. Only time would tell if she had quickened, but she hoped so. To bear his child would be a gift, and Master would not be so harsh as to send their son or daughter away despite the circumstances of such a birth. At least she thought not. Master did not care for such things, and this was Rome, not her barely remembered village. Things were different here, he was different, and he was not cruel without cause._

_She had given no cause._

_She served him, she loved him, she offered up her body, and kept his secrets. There were many, many secrets to keep after all; secrets seen in dubious corners and secrets whispered in darkness made safe by tangled limbs and heaving breaths. But she was excellent at keeping secrets. After all, that was why Master had had the slave trader cut out her tongue so many years ago._

_He was her Master, and he was never cruel without purpose._

/////////////

It was an accident, really. John had returned from dropping Madeline off for the week at Mary and David’s new place and he had been caught in both a traffic jam and a down pour on the way home. It had been a trial to see his ex-wife and her lover all happy and domestic together. John had put Madeline in her bouncy seat and straightened up just in time to catch a glimpse of David bussing Mary’s cheek at the kitchen counter. He’d suddenly been eaten alive by a visceral jealousy that he would never be able to have that sort of easy intimacy with Sherlock. The man was the very definition of unattainable after all; unmoved and uninterested. John knew Sherlock cared as much as he could, but the detective simply wasn’t built for the physical pleasures that John could admit he was somewhat of a slave to.

There was too Sherlock’s new and complete aversion to touch. It was somewhat worrisome to John. The last time Sherlock had been injured (a shallow attempted stabbing across the left side of his ribcage) John had seen the Detective actually grit his teeth and stare stoically at the wall while breathing extremely evenly through his nose. Hell, he hadn’t even removed his shirt all the way, simply lifting the barest portion needed for John to work unhindered. He had finished his work as quickly as possible; loathe to cause his friend such obvious discomfort.

On that day, John had felt a bit out of sorts. His heart had ached even more than usual to see his daughter leave him for the long week ahead, and seeing David and Mary so content and comfortable together had ignited envy and longing in his guts. He left much earlier than he usually did, begging off dinner with the small lie of a pounding head and heading home. The downpour happening outside had prompted him to take a cab instead of the tube, and a minor lack of Sunday afternoon traffic had significantly shortened his travel time home. As a result, he was a good three hours earlier than usual. 

He’d entered 221 and been careful not to slam the door as he knew Mrs. Hudson would be feeling the damp in her hip and probably napping to combat pain related exhaustion. His shoes, soaked and a little muddy from the storm, he removed at the bottom of the stairs, not wanting to track grit and wet all over the place. He’d slowly and quietly hauled his tired body up the stairs, expertly avoiding the creaky spots out of absent minded habit, and walked through the door to the sitting room.

He had just been about to call out for Sherlock when he heard a sound coming from the detective’s bedroom. Thinking Sherlock had taken advantage of his absence to catch up on sleep and was now in the throes of an unpleasant nightmare, John padded down the hallway on stocking feet to push the halfway open door to a wider spacing and stopped dead at what he saw.

Sherlock was stretched on his bed; naked and glistening with perspiration, the long, clean lines of him strung taut and shaking. His left hand was wrapped around the spindle of his headboard and his right was gliding effortlessly on the slickened length of his lovely cock. John hardened in his trousers fast enough to leave him a little lightheaded as saliva flooded his mouth and his hands twitched at his sides. He was frozen for a few seconds, the gorgeous image of Sherlock’s straining, closed-eyed visage burning to his brain in permanent Technicolor. He came back to his senses in shame at intruding on such a private moment and had just eased back a step to vanish upstairs for his own masturbatory session when Sherlock moaned again, low and quiet.

“Mmmm…John….”

Well, that changed everything didn’t it? Suddenly, John was flooded with hunger, victory, and a predatory feeling of want. He stalked forward to the still oblivious detective and reached out to grasp the moving wrist and halt the frantic motions completely.

Sherlock startled of course, his eyes flying open in shock and his head snapping around to stare dazed and horrified up at the doctor looming above him with dark eyes. The look of fear turned quickly to shock and confusion as John placed his knee next to a narrow hip, dipping the mattress and falling forward to catch himself with a hand planted firmly next to the curly head on the pillow. John leaned down; stopping mere inches away from Sherlock’s slightly parted lips.

“If you want me to stop, now would be the time to say so.”

Sherlock blinked rapidly, stared up at the beloved face above him, and very deliberately shut his mouth. John grinned and gave a fervent whisper.

“Oh, thank God.”

Then he closed the gap between them and pressed a devastating kiss into the slick mouth he had been dreaming of for over half a decade. Sherlock arched up and pressed enthusiastically back, his agile tongue stroking John’s titillating undulations while a deep moan rumbled and bubbled up from his chest before spilling between his new lover’s lips. Sherlock’s large, violinist’s hands reached up, one twining spidery fingers into golden and silver hair while the other clutched at the small of John’s back in a bid to pull the former army doctor to straddle his nude body, a hint John greatly appreciated and readily acquiesced to.

After that it was a quick blur of discarded clothing (John’s) and quickly spread thighs (Sherlock’s) as the detective’s conveniently placed bottle of lube was snatched up from the dresser and put to very good and satisfying use. John had four fingers thrusting and stretching inside Sherlock, the tips gently brushing in just the right spot, when Sherlock’s constant keening finally cut off into a broken chant.

“John, John, in me, please, I need you in me, now, God, now…”

John, his breath shuddering in his chest, eased forward, slotting his cock in place and pressing forward as he dragged his fingers out, the leftover slick gliding over his length and pushing back into Sherlock. Once he was in to the hilt and gazing down into stunned, aquamarine eyes, he stilled to catch his breath. When he saw awareness begin to filter back into Sherlock’s features, he began to move, setting a languorous pace of firm strokes designed to ease them slowly higher and higher. Sherlock’s dark head tossed on the pillow, his ridiculous neck arched and showing his strong tendons in sharp relief. His eyes were rolling back in his head and John was so deeply in love he knew he’d never find his way to solid ground again.

The tension between them built to a crescendo, spurred along to the music of their sighs and gasps. Sherlock, wound up from his interrupted personal session, was the first to spill with a wailing cry of John’s name and his legs shuddering around John’s hips. John began to snap his pelvis even faster, driving himself deep into Sherlock’s twitching body, chasing his release before Sherlock became too oversensitive to take him. Barely twenty strokes later, he stopped and jerked as his cock pulsed in waves, flooding Sherlock with his come and causing one last blissful moan to be wrung from the detective’s hoarse throat.

John slowly and delicately pulled his softening cock out a few moments later, easing down to Sherlock’s side before his shaking arms could give way and he crushed the sated body beneath him. He didn’t go far though, pressing close to Sherlock, heedless of sticky, sweat soaked skin and pressed thankful, closed mouth kisses to the strong shoulder before him.

The lay in silence for a few moments before Sherlock turned his head, his eyes sleepy but bright with happiness. John gazed back, satisfied and ecstatic in his own right and they smiled giddily at each other. Sherlock was the first to speak.

“That was unexpected, but very welcome. It will…this, us…we will continue, yes?”

John darted forward to kiss pale skin and smile.

“Was it really that unexpected, love? I’ve adored you for years, are you telling me you never noticed? And yes, we bloody well are continuing this. If you think I’m ever going to be able to let you go now that I’ve had you, you’re madder than anyone ever guessed.”

Sherlock grinned and chuckled, pleased and warm.

“Good.”

John grinned back.

“Yes, it is, isn’t it?”

With that pronouncement and in complete accord, they settled down to whisper and drowse, tangled up together and secure that they would never be alone again.

////////////

_The ship was huge, sleek and bursting with the latest technology designed to survive the rigors of deep space. He was eager to seek out the engine room, his domain now that he’d finally earned his place as lead engineer on a star cruiser, his dream finally realized. But first, he had to report to the bridge and introduce himself to his fellow top officers. He quickly made his way through the labyrinthine halls, knowing they would be as familiar as the back of his hand soon enough._

_When he finally made his way to Command, he looked to the center chair, spying a tall figure wearing the insignia of a Captain on his collar, though his face was turned away. He strode forward purposefully._

_He cleared his throat and made sure to stand straight and proud as the dark head swung around to face him and he got his first look at his commanding officer. As he met the sharp, crystalline eyes set in a beautiful face, he nearly lost his breath. Oh dear, but he was in trouble._

_The Captain smiled briefly and held out a hand to shake. As he closed his hand around the one before him, he smiled back and knew he was already lost to this man._

_He opened his mouth to introduce himself and make a silent pledge at the same time._

_Wherever this man went, he would follow. In this life or the next._


End file.
